The Doll’s House (2 page)

‘There are other good schools,' she pointed out. ‘He didn't go to Harrow; he didn't have to send his children there. They seemed nice enough boys, they'll understand.'

‘If you want to watch this crap,' he said rudely, ‘why don't we stop talking? You wouldn't know how David feels. You don't have children.'

‘As things are,' Rosa got up, ‘it's just as well. I'm going to bed, James. You may have spent time getting pissed and working yourself up to have a row when you got home, but I was very busy and I rushed through all day to get back in good time. Now I'm tired.'

She went out and stopped herself from banging the door. He had been in a foul mood. No children. That was his weapon and he used it constantly. Going upstairs her anger drained away. He wouldn't follow her and make it up. She wouldn't wait for him and hold out her arms and say, ‘Don't let's fight, darling. Come here.'

She undressed and spent some minutes looking at herself in the bathroom mirror. Dark rings under the eyes, a look of strain round the mouth. She was unhappy. So was he; he wasn't unkind by nature. The James Bennet she fell in love with was warmhearted. He was disappointed and she was the cause. He wanted what she couldn't give him and she had tried to warn him from the start.

She loved her job. She wanted to succeed in it. She didn't want to give it up and have children and stay at home. And if he resented her career at the Foreign Office, what would he say if she told him about the new post she had been offered – and accepted that afternoon. She had transferred from Diplomacy to Intelligence.

She went over the long interview in her mind, the image of the unhappy woman in the mirror blurring out of focus, hearing Sir Hugh Chapman saying persuasively, ‘You have exceptional talent, Rosa. That's why we want you. And you'll benefit from the experience. It'll enhance your future career prospects when you go back to a normal job. I can guarantee that. And the Brussels posting is among the most important.'

Second Secretary at the British Embassy. Eyes and ears in the heart of the European Community. An established diplomat who'd excite no suspicion of her other role. How complimentary Sir Hugh had been, praising her ability to the retired Air Marshal who was head of ‘C' Section.

She hadn't hesitated for long. It was only for two years at most. She and James could spend weekends together. It might be a good thing if they were apart during the week. Lots of people lived like that: the wife in the country, the husband in a flat in London, coming home on Friday night. Brussels was no further than a couple of hours commuting by train in terms of time. It was such a challenge, such an opportunity.

If we were getting on well, the thought whispered to her while she considered, it would be different. I mightn't want to go. But even if I turned it down James wouldn't be satisfied. He wants total surrender.

She went back to see Sir Hugh that afternoon and said she had decided to accept and join ‘C' section. And that was that.

She didn't have to tell James for some time. She'd undergo a basic course in Intelligence work in London before she was ready to take up the appointment. It had sounded so interesting she couldn't wait to start. And it was vital too, a challenge she couldn't resist. England was part of the Community, but with more enemies than friends in Europe. So much depended upon knowing what those enemies were saying and doing to undermine the English position. ‘Forewarned,' her new employer said in his dry way, ‘is forearmed, Mrs Bennet,' and it didn't even sound like a cliché.

She saw herself in the glass again and made a resolution. She would make up the silly row with her husband. She'd been unreasonable considering what had happened at his office to a colleague who was an old friend. She got into the double bed and switched the side light on. Her hair fell loosely to her shoulders and she was naked. When the door opened she called out to him.

‘Is that my bear with the sore head?'

It used to be their private joke, the prelude to a reconciliation if they had a little quarrel in the early days. He came into the room and saw her, sitting up bathed in the soft light. She opened her arms and the full breasts excited him. She said softly, ‘Come on, bear, come and make it up with me.'

He came and suddenly he wanted her so badly it made him rough and urgent. They made love several times during the night and fell asleep close together as if the present had become the past.

And each made their resolution. ‘It'll be all right now. It was just a bad patch. I'll try harder from now on.'

‘I thought I'd drop in as I was passing, just to say goodbye.'

Harry Oakham said, ‘I'm glad you did. Sorry you missed the lunch. It was a great send-off.'

Sir Eric had sent his apologies; pressure of work had prevented him attending the farewell party at St Ermin's Hotel up the road. A lunch with plenty of drink, speeches, some of them funny, tributes to Harry Oakham on his retirement from the Service. A great send-off, as he'd said. ‘A pity,' Sir Eric had repeated, that he hadn't been able to join them.

Oakham looked relaxed. He'd made a speech of his own. One of the guests had been thoughtful enough to take it down and send it round to Sir Eric. It had been witty and mercifully short. On such occasions old spies were known to grow maudlin which was embarrassing. But Oakham wouldn't bow out on a nostalgic note. Sir Eric Newton had been his superior for thirteen years and he knew Harry better than that. He had missed the party, but he made a point of coming in to say goodbye in person. So, on the afternoon of Oakham's last day in the office, he had come along to shake his hand.

‘Any ideas about the future?' he asked. He wasn't really curious, but it was polite to show interest.

‘I thought I might do something in catering,' Oakham answered.

Sir Eric was surprised. ‘Really? That doesn't sound much in your line.'

‘It's just a vague idea, nothing definite. I'm not in a hurry to commit myself. Plenty of time.'

‘Yes, of course. Time to stand and stare for a change, eh? And don't forget, Harry, if you need any help, anything at all – just get in touch. How's your wife looking forward to having you at home?'

He made it sound jocular. It was on Oakham's file that the wife played around and they weren't happy, but it was a remark he'd made to a lot of married men retiring early in the past few months. It just slipped out.

Oakham didn't even blink. ‘With any luck,' he said, ‘she'll get so fed up, she'll leave me.' He laughed, which Sir Eric found uncomfortable.

But then Harry Oakham was that kind of man. You never quite knew with him. But he seemed to have taken it all in good part. He was relaxed, he didn't complain or quibble about his pension and gratuity. He took it all with that slight smile that seemed to mock himself, the Service and everyone in it.

‘Well,' Sir Eric Newton got up; he was a short, wiry little man and Oakham stood a head taller. He held out his hand. ‘Good luck, Harry. Enjoy life, won't you? You've earned it.'

Oakham opened the door for him, closed it on him. His desk was clear. Everything was packed up. He'd given in his keys, his ID card.

He'd hated every moment of the farewell lunch. He'd listened to the humbug being talked and the bursts of clapping, and made his wry, amusing speech to more applause, much of it prompted by the amount of booze they'd put away. After twenty-eight years of service, twenty of them in active field work, Harry Oakham had been retired. The lunch had been on the first of April, the Fool's Day. Thanks very much old chap, thanks for the best part of your life and all the times you nearly lost it. And don't let's talk about the lives you took, that's best forgotten. We've given you a slap-up party and told you how splendid it all was and waved you goodbye to a golden twilight.

He walked out of his office and closed the door with a snap. He stood waiting for the lift to come and take him down and out of the building for the last time. At his floor a young woman got out; she smiled briefly at him. He didn't know her. He didn't linger in the reception hall; all his goodbyes to the staff had been said in the pub the night before. He'd held his private party there with Frank on the desk and Pat who'd looked after the security and the old girl who'd cleaned his office since he first got behind a desk.

There was nothing to do now but wave as he walked out into Victoria Street. He moved with the spring of a man who was fit and younger than his fifty-two years. Hardly a grey hair on his head, eyesight and reflexes as sharp as ever. But not needed any more. Harry Oakham, retired spy. Times had changed; how often he'd heard the same platitudes spouted in the last few months. Men with his skills and his experience were an anachronism now. His department was being closed down. The Ministry of Defence would take over the building.

Officially the Department hadn't existed since the war ended in 1945. Unofficially it had been in operation since 1961. He'd been interviewed in the shabby office complex down the street from the Army & Navy Stores. He'd been an early recruit. For the last eight years he'd been desk-bound.

He stopped to light a cigarette. Before that the Cold War had been bloody hot for people like him. Now it was all over. Peace on earth and good old Gorbachev. He waited by the kerb, smoking. He saw a taxi, its orange light glowing and raised his hand. It slowed, stopped and he got in. He leaned back in the seat.

‘The Arts Club, Dover Street,' he said.

The driver peered at him over his shoulder. He had a surly face.

‘The sign says “No smoking”,' he challenged.

The sign was polite, unlike the driver. It said simply,
THANK YOU FOR NOT SMOKING
. Harry Oakham tossed the cigarette out of the window. Never call attention to yourself. Never get involved in a public row. Keep a low profile. He'd been teaching that for years. Old habits die hard. Or don't die at all, he thought.

He was out with a pension and a cash payment and references that said he'd spent the last twenty-eight years as a reliable middle-grade Civil Servant. He'd even been given a list of contacts friendly to the Service. One of them would be sure to give him a job. Something to supplement the pension.

The taxi drew up in Dover Street. He paid the exact fare. The driver looked up and glared at him.

Oakham smiled. ‘I thought it said, “Thank you for not tipping”,' he said and swung away and into the club while the man was still swearing at him.

He was well known at the club. He'd been a member for many years. He liked the atmosphere. It was friendly and relaxed. Publishers and artists patronized it. There were good paintings in the upstairs rooms and usually an interesting exhibition in the handsome bar. The staff knew him, but he didn't encourage other members. It was a good place for meeting contacts. You wouldn't expect two professionals to be working out an assignment over lunch.

He ordered a whisky and soda at the bar and took it into the big reception room. There was a painting of the actress Evelyn Laye by the door. He often spent time looking at it. What a beautiful woman. She reminded him of Judith. But that had been a long time ago. Judith had had the same wistful look, the wide eyes of astonishing blue. He still couldn't think about Judith without pain.

A voice beside him said, ‘Hello, Harry.'

‘Hello, Jan. Sit down, I'll get you a drink. Scotch?'

‘Please. Water, no ice. Thanks.'

Jan was very punctual. He had a name nobody could pronounce so everybody called him Jan. And he was never late. Except once. He was late for ten years because he was in prison in Cracow. The sentence had been life, but he was released when Poland became a democracy. He'd come back to England. England was his home, it was the only country he knew. He came home to be taken care of; they'd stood him six months in a convalescent home and then invalided him out. The psychiatric report said he was unstable after his experience. He had been one of Harry's men. When he came out of the nursing home, Harry paid for him to go on holiday to Scotland with his girlfriend. Scotland was good for the soul. You get a sense of perspective in the glens. You see that you're small and the world is big and nothing's that important. Jan was braver than the cowboys, because he had to be in place ahead of them and that meant a greater risk of being caught.

Harry had seen the medical report and chucked it into the waste-paper basket. It hadn't stopped the Service from ditching Jan. Not long after, Jan's girlfriend left him for someone with a City job and a smart little pad in the Barbican. Jan went to work for a Polish charity.

Harry came back with the drink. ‘How are you?'

The Pole shrugged. ‘I'm fine, very busy.' He had an engaging smile. ‘Busy doing nothing much, but I get paid and I get by. And today was your last day, Harry?'

Jan hadn't been invited to the lunch. Oakham had registered that with silent fury.

‘Yes,' he offered Jan a cigarette; the Pole refused it. His lungs were damaged. He had to ration his smoking very carefully.

‘I'm now officially retired. I can catch my train back to Woking and sit on my arse till I get a coronary from boredom. Or take one of those part-time jobs a grateful department fixes up. Cigarette money's what they pay. And they've done you a favour. No thanks.'

He was letting the bitterness show; Jan knew him so well. Too well. He was a dangerous man when he was angry.

‘What
are
you going to do?' he asked.

The answer surprised him.

‘Get rid of Peggy.'

Jan had never liked Harry's wife. They'd met a couple of times; he thought she was stupid and he knew she was unfaithful because Harry made a joke of it.

He said after a pause, ‘It's about time. I don't know why you put up with it.'

‘Because I had other things to think about. I don't want to live with her. She certainly doesn't want to live with me.' He grinned. ‘She'll jump at the chance to get a bit of cash and go off with the lover boy. Whichever one it is at the moment. I need a refill.' He picked up his empty glass. ‘Finish that up and have another. Then we'll get down to business.'